There is no us in that—
in that you’re on your own.
Refusal to walk into your trap
where hate breeds like a disease unknown.
Your thoughts collapse, too slack, too thin,
to prove you ever weighed it all.
I cannot see where your mind has been,
prepared to twist and watch it fall.
You chose the crowd instead of thought,
traded your reason for their disguise.
You bury your hate in borrowed lies,
and march in step with a machine—
telling your heart this path is proud,
that every stride is patriotic ground.
But your path veers far from mine.
It runs against all I know.
Darkness shadows every track—
and I no longer want to know you.
What people say, what people do..
Is born from them, not born from you.
Their words reflect their inner skies..
Their thoughts, their fears, their hidden lies.
The world they see is theirs alone..
A mirror carved from flesh and bone.
When you take things to heart, you’ll find..
You let them rule your peace of mind.
But if you choose to stand apart..
You guard your soul, protect your heart.
For power lives in how you see..
Your thoughts, your truth, your dignity.
Let others walk their path, their way..
Their storms are not your skies of grey.
What’s real for them is not for you..
Just be yourself.. sincere and true.
So breathe, step back, let judgments fall..
They never really knew you at all.
The strength is yours, the choice is free..
Don’t take it on.. just let it be.
[Poet’s Note : this is a wry autobiographical memory written in traditional pirouette verse viz. 2 quintains, line 5 & 6 repeat, which is the toe turnaround. I wanted to write a narrative of a weird syncopated vignette, when I was knitting a pink mohair jersey at the time of my imprisonment. I reduced the narrative to a pirouette. When in prison, one of my interrogators was knitting the EXACT jersey in the exact colour & exact wool ! ie. in the final analysis, (in retrospect) everything in human life can be reduced to a pirouette, a turn-around dance ! ]
knitting a pink jersey
mohair with cables fine
to process flying thoughts
political activist
south africa turmoiled
south africa turmoiled
security police
came with casspirs and cuffs
interrogation chamber
police knit jersey pink
~~~~~~~~~
Vanilla victories over inner wars,
Sisyphean speeches to oneself.
Tarnished trophies shoved in drawers,
endless errands placed on the shelf.
Purposeless projects of predication,
purport prisms of pellucidity.
Fathoms of frailty, falter the foundation;
left with inconsolable invisibility.
You don't see me....
you don't see me....
walking through life like a ghost.
You won't see me....
you won't see me....
alone is how I like it most.
Languishing lies, laughingly polluting,
crowing at my own incompetency.
Draining desperation, directly diluting
concentration and all confidency.
You don't see me....
you don't see me....
I'm here but I'm transparent.
You won't see me....
no, you won't see me....
translucently inherent.
BLT
Her body tells a story.
A story all might not know.
Her lips and voice once used as a flirtatious weapon.
Hips once used to seduce.
She used to dress to impress.
Too flirtatious for her own good.
Now her lips are used to kiss boo-boos.
Her voice used to sing lullabies.
Her body used to take care of everyone else first.
Now she dresses without a care.
Somedays she doesn't recognize herself from who she used to be.
we came up same building,
same busted elevator, same rumors in the walls —
three girls stacked on top of each other
like secrets whispered through radiator pipes.
6S - she’s half rican, half black,
but don’t call her half - she all attitude,
dark skin glowing when she laughs too loud,
hips slick like she dancing with nobody’s permission.
5E - 5’1 and built like a threat,
she got a stare that’ll stop you mid-lie.
she hate surprises, so we never sneak up -
she come knocking first if you do her wrong.
then me - 7N, freckles spread like stars on light skin,
red-brown hair tied up, book in my lap,
content to stay inside while they chase block heat.
they pull me out anyway - stoop nights, corner gossip,
big dreams that don’t always fit our pockets.
we so different it make no sense -
three girls shaped like soft rebellion,
like hard lessons, like love
that never needed no permission slip.
puberty tried to twist us up,
boys tried to break us open,
life threw her worst
and we just leaned closer -
me, yaphia, tarita - same building girls,
same busted elevator,
still going up.
awake usual thoughts
failures made imposed
turn others sleep
those like may also awake
guilt not helping light
rest night fears conflicts
wars doubts known not
all prepositioned
keep hope peace joy love
isolated chambered atomized
quarked vanquished
Lord Jesus maybe will
many claim dead still
resurrection appendage
little importance since
not fit soteriology
identity not body
only survives death
timeless eternity reincarnated heaven
space sans time spent looking edge
those not yet arrived
waiting again undiscovering
one another simultaneously
except frozen eternity
Lord be raised embodied ongoing
time continued timely together
see those sleep those cannot
night pray
now three two hours
now one before dawn
Sometimes, when we hurl
angry words—
ancient stones thrown by indifference,
lodging in the ears of our children.
Witnessing horror twist itself into child’s play.
A stone’s throw—killed our empathy.
Anger knows its enemy:
sitting next to,
sitting opposite of,
never with.
It sits a stone’s throw away.
Rising from the ashes of fear—
Vapours of flesh smoulder
as blooded lava flows.
Cools—
our scarred magma to a crusted creed.
The stitched social fabric
binds us—
its loud colour blinds us.
Worn by both—
the right
and left sleeve.
United buttons,
reconcile for peace.
Unironed—full of wrinkles.
We tear further apart
the closer we come,
repelling—mirroring
the same magnetic face.
We read our compass,
in a bipolar place;
wondering how,
we’ve lost our way.
Believing everything
we’ve been taught,
until we die—
Realizing—
too late,
it’s all been a lie.
All because of that single decision
To grasp that grate and breathe in the ethereal skies above
Rather than
To let go of that grate and suffocate in the foul sewage below
Because of what he chose
This is what he is
Independent
Not
Incarcerated
Whole
Not
Wounded
Confident
Not
Confused
Slipping off of the rusted edge, on which side will he land?
Brilliant
Not
Bleak
Courageous
Not
Cowardly
Relieved
Not
Remorseful
This is what he is
Because of what he chose
To grasp that grate and breathe in the ethereal skies above
Rather than
To let go of that grate and suffocate in the foul sewage below
All because of that single decision
Now, what if he wasn’t resolved in his decision?
Simply read the poem in reverse.
they sit outside the penny candy store,
old men slap dominoes on chipped tables,
smoke curling up like prayers
their wives gave up saying.
i lean on the fire escape,
watch them call me mami
like it’s my birthright —
call me solid, thick like the block,
hips wide enough to hold the gossip
and still swing.
they say ju got that caramel skin,
that soft bite in your mouth
when you try to say sweet —
they say i’m loud, i’m stubborn,
i argue with my hands and my hips,
i got too much to say for a girl
that comes from stoops and window sills.
but this is my gospel —
my curvy body a prayer,
my no’s a sermon,
my laugh breaks their cigar smoke,
my name rides the domino slam —
mira, mami, this girl ain’t leaving
her corner for nobody.
An Angel,
How could you breathe life into someone so twisted, rotten to the core?
A Beauty,
How can something that came from you be so ugly, inside and out?
A Queen,
A calamity your face sits on a peasant, so unworthy of your image.
A Warrior,
How can an offspring of yours be this weak and pathetic?
A Champion,
A shame you bore a loser that is always defeated, giving nothing but disgrace.
A Saint,
How come something that's supposed to be of you have turned out so viscous, cruel and unkind?
But the real question is,
How can someone as perfect as you beget a monster like me?
I am nobody for you.
You don't know I exist, too.
I'm a simple, shy girl
with some sixteen-year-old fantasies, too.
You don't know me,
and I either, too -
but there's something
I feel, too.
Wanna step up,
getting high with you,
scared to fall
in the images, too.
How say hi?
How say bye?
I'm here,
watching you
side of my eye.
I'm stressed out,
how to say you...
I'm that nobody
for you,
'cause we are
in our own cage, too.
INVESTED
slow
a
n
d
sure
overnight
~ divestiture
I sit, legs crossed, typing away
Doing homework, my hair uncombed
Listening to songs I don’t love but don’t hate
And I stare out the window and wonder,
Is there something more than this?
And my fingers type away
In a never-ending game
It’s raining. I feel nothing
Writing bad poems in the dark, and I wonder,
Is there more to me than this?
Procrastination, adrenaline, headphones,
Cell phones, whiteboards, deodorant,
Romance, hardback books, college, drama,
Movies, concerts, lectures, hormones,
And I wonder,
Is there more to youth than this?
My thoughts are scattered, my eyes unfocused
My brain stretched in five directions
And I don’t know who to be
Because we’re pebbles in a muddy stream
And in a world of distractions, 8 billion voices ask,
Is there more to life than this?
Truth is a dagger—painful,
yet healing when it cuts deep.
History does not lie:
the Imperial Japanese Army,
once a beast of discipline and fire,
marched on arrogance,
believing steel could bend the world.
But time betrayed them.
China, unarmed, hungry,
with no advanced weapons,
stood in defiance,
its discipline sharper than any blade.
And when the dust settled,
it was China, scarred yet unbroken,
who rose from the ashes of war.
Now, eighty years hence,
the drums resound again.
Parade of steel,
columns of might—
Putin watches, Kim nods,
and the world is forced to witness:
“The China of yesterday is no more.
The China of today rules the century.”
Is this victory,
or a warning written in banners of red?
The West whispers,
“If you cannot beat them, join them.”
But Japan, silent,
remembers the shadow of its past.
Nations bow not to friendship,
but to power.
And power, once attained,
rules the stage like an emperor.
So I ask—
when the dragon leads the march,
who dares to stand against its fire?
Specific Types of Identity Poems
Definition | What is Identity in Poetry?
Poems Related to Identity
status, name, character, identification, existence, integrity, personality, singleness, self, coherence, uniqueness, distinctiveness, oneness, singularity, particularity, circumstances, selfhood, ipseity, selfdom, selfness, unity, equality, similitude, accord, semblance, likeness, uniformity, unanimity, identicalness, equivalence, congruence, agreement, rapport, congruity, oneness, empathy, selfsameness, resemblance, sameness,